Bards and Sages Quarterly (April 2013)

By Bards and Sages Publishing

Since 2009, each issue of the Bards and Sages Quarterly has delivered a unique variety of character-driven speculative fiction short stories from both new and established writers. Our writers include first-time authors, Pushcart Prize nominees and Nebula award winners. This issue features 21 original stories from Wil Ogden, KJ Hannah Greenberg, Jamie Lackey, Brenda Stokes Barron, and many other talented writers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bards and Sages Publishing
• Release date: Apr 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301279050

Bards and Sages Publishing

Established in 2002, Bards and Sages Publishing is a micro-press that publishes speculative fiction and roleplaying games. To find our line of RPG products in digital format, please visit Drivethrurpg.

Book preview

Bards and Sages Quarterly

Volume V, Issue II

April 2013

Editor-in-Chief

Julie Ann Dawson

Editorial Assistant

Jaime Kaiser

Cover Art by

Deanna Roy

Print ISSN 1944-4699

©2013 Bards and Sages Publishing

Smashwords Digital Edition

Smashwords License Statement

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In This Issue

The Playhouse, by Douglas E. Wright

Revenge is a Star in the Sky, by Brenda Stokes Barron

BLOCKED!, by Hugh J. O'Donnell

Bus Stop, by Liz Mierzejewski

Home From the Hill of Skulls, by Eric Del Carlo

The Jew with the Flute, by Raz Greenberg

Just Add Water, by Samuel Mae

Unforeseen Consequences, by Jamie Lackey

Nothing But a Little Magic!, by Christian Riley

Quirk, By Ellen Denton

Along Sand Creek, by C.R. Hodges

Something for Everyone, by Steven Saus

Amazing Deterrents, KJ Hannah Greenberg

Dice and a Prayer, by Alexis A. Hunter

The Final Request, by Harley Carnell

The Honor of a Knight, by Wil Ogden

Troublesome Landscapes, by Malcolm Laughton

Under the Boardwalk, by Manny Frishberg

Walter, by by P.L. Torres

Doule’s Monster, by Brenda Anderson

To Murder a King, by T.J. McIntyre

The Playhouse

by Douglas E. Wright

The vacant Tudor looked as lonely as the road it resided on, but most of the surrounding acreage that used to be attached to it had now been severed, sections of it cut into backyards for suburban homes, while other lots were combined into a territory that had been bulldozed level, razing all the plant life from its soil, just so the local shopping mall’s parking lot could pour onto the paved section of the original Millcreek Road.

Then, there was the cemetery that sat next door to the house. Its perimeter retained a gate, frozen open by rust, and a couple of stone pillars on each side where the cedar fence had been overgrown by weeping willows and scrub pines. It had crumpled into the soft earth like the gravestones that were partially hidden by overgrown tufts of brown grass beyond it.

It’d be awesome to convert that building into a writing room, Steven Greenwood said as he walked around the miniature Tudor house. The dilapidated building sat in a tangle of autumn bushes and raspberry cane; its painted shell peeling and its roof carpeted with moss. The house was a reproduction of the main building he was preparing to buy, and it wasn’t in much better shape. Its window frames had sheets of wavy Depression glass; looking through them, you could barely see the backyard. All of the door hinges squawked when the entrances were unlocked and pushed open. The warped hardwood floors were so water damaged, a professional marble player would have been sent screaming into the nearest mental institution if forced to play upon them.

Oh, that, the realtor said, standing on the back step. It’s a playhouse. Back in the day people built them for their daughters. Sometimes they were called dollhouses back then. And sometimes they were named playhouses. The big difference between the two is how a child used the building. From what I understand this was more of a playhouse than a dollhouse. Just what've gathered over time, but I could be completely wrong. She giggled.

Pretty big for a playhouse or a dollhouse if you ask me, Steven said, scanning the building. He glanced at an old lawnmower and a rusted gas can in a homemade lean-to. Looks like everything around here has gone to crap.

Yes, it hasn’t been very well looked after. She looked to the small building. It’s not that kind of playhouse, you know. In the 1800s the wealthy sometimes commissioned smaller versions of their own homes for their children. Like I said. Usually for girls. But I’ve heard they were built for boys too. Just not often. And I’ve never actually come across one. She climbed down the steps and crossed the yard. If you like, we can go inside. It’s not locked.

He surveyed the overgrown property and momentarily shifted his eyes to the cemetery gate. In a minute, he said, turning back to the newly paved highway that ran past the front of the house. He glimpsed the washed-out ‘FOR SALE’ sign that stood at the beginning of the circular driveway. His low-ball offer would grant him the deal, no matter what she said. For one — the house stood miles from the nearest neighbor, whether looking at the property in stature or location, the place still required more renovations than most people could afford.

The realtor walked across the lawn, taking care not to step on anything hiding in the overgrown grass. You know this place has been empty for a long time. You could probably tell by the damp smell in the house.

The furnace should be turned on and left burning for a week without a break, he said. That way the dampness and stink will disappear.

She tilted her head. The owners live in Florida and just wanna get rid of it. They could care less about the smell. They’ve never lived here. It was their grandparent’s home. But who am I to talk? The deed is in their name and can sell if free and clear. That’s all we care about, right? She looked to the playhouse and continued without a breath in between her sentences, So. You a published writer?

Oh yeah, Steven said. A smirk stretched over his face. Selling pretty well too. He touched the red leaves of a sumac that were twisting in the breeze.

What kind of writing do you do?

He looked to the ground. Suspense mainly. Dark. Used to be called horror. Before movies gave the genre a bad name. Cold blew from the overgrown burial ground. He shivered.

How do you like the property so far? she asked.

Fine I guess. But the main house needs a lot of work. Like putting in screen windows.

You’re on Vancouver Island. She laughed. No insects here. We’re not like back east. She edged along a cedar hedge. Where exactly you from again?

Steven blinked at the sun filtering through a willow tree. He headed to the front of the building. Ottawa.

The agent passed him and jaunted up the steps, the front door slamming behind her after going in. After a minute, a neighboring window frame crashed to the sill, then the front door swung open again and the agent bounded out onto the verandah. "You didn’t say what you really do for a living," she said waving sheets of paper over her head.

Right now I’m a rent-a-mailman at Oakland Pharmacy . . . when I’m not writing. He chuckled at the thought. Anyone who’d been in the writing business for any length of time knew it took years of hard work and no casual life to finally get published. And he was a prime example. Divorced twice and no lover in sight for at least the last three years. He grimaced, knowing she was searching for the right answer, the answer that would help him secure a mortgage, the answer that would prove he wasn’t full of crap, and the answer that made a statement of concrete substantial earnings. I make money writing digitally about ghosts.

Only weird people read that stuff, right? she said. You seem too nice to be writing drivel.

He arched an eyebrow. Thank you, he returned. If I’m lucky, I’ll write the next Great Digital Novel.

She smirked. That’ll never happen. They’re not real books.

He sniffed the cool air. "All I know is that I make enough right now to pay the rent with the sale of my imitation books. And that’s what really matters. Right?"

Yes, she said. Her voice harsher than before. I guess I’ll never find your work in real store, right?

Never in a flooded seashell, Steven answered.

She stepped up beside him. By the looks of the paperwork, I’ve no doubt you’ll attain a mortgage. She craned her head and looked to the main Tudor. Roof needs attention and the exterior needs a little paint. And I guess maybe those eves are asking for a few updated downspouts. And your mortgage will run fourteen hundred a month. Can you afford all that?

Yeah, he said, scrawling his signature across the bottom of the second page. Not worried. After handing it back, he crossed the yard, brushed the raspberry brambles aside, and climbed the stairs of the miniature playhouse. He tapped the building’s decrepit porch with his shoe and then cautiously slid across its rotted floorboards. He pushed open the unlocked entryway. It swung open. A moldy stench poured out and cylinders of dust spun in the muted daylight. He moved to one of three windows dotting the graffiti walls. From a crack in one of the glass panes, a chill caressed his cheek and a metallic ting resounded from the open attic access. A noise he had heard before, but couldn’t quite figure out. He moved to a handmade ladder and climbed into the ceiling’s jagged rent. The tinny musical note rang out again. He seized the rough edges of the ceiling entrance. In the attic’s gloom, he spotted a white glimmering dot of light. Within an instant, the point rapidly expanded into the size of a baseball. He pushed forward. The speck of light expanded to the outer edges of the shadowy room. Antique playthings, cobwebs and dust reached out of the semidarkness. As he slowly took in the area, the light flourished and rushed in a swirling glow until the room finally exploded into an array of sparkly orange and black Halloween lights. The ball’s elongated tail spread glitter and scintillation over the attic walls. The room almost looked like Christmas at the Eaton’s Super Centre.

Steven lost footing and slid down the ladder, dust and grit followed close behind. Jesus, he said. His heart pounding while dots of perspiration stained his eyebrows.

The realtor pushed through the front door. What’s going on?

He looked about. Something weird just happened.

Like?

After a moment, he thought better of mentioning the strange stuff. Didn’t want her to think he was a lunatic. Not if he was going to become a neighbor. "How long’s this place really been on the market?"

A long time, she said. She averted her eyes and searched the dusty interior.

Good then. I want it. He pushed out onto the small porch, side-glancing the graveyard to his left. He caught a chill. Not an autumn breeze chill, but one that crawled beneath his skin. The feeling he got was that the graves next door represented loneliness more than remembrance. He turned to the porch. The agent stood outside, her face pulled into a confused and worried look. The attic looks like it might’ve been used for storage, he said.

She cleared her throat. Yeah, she replied, But judging by the over-all condition of the place, I doubt it was used very much over the years.

He scanned the structure’s dilapidated exterior. I’ll put the place to good use. He paused for a few seconds and then asked, What’s the story behind this property?

The realtor sprung open a file folder and stepped off the porch. She walked through the colored trees, away from the playhouse, into the yard where he was standing. Well, nothing’s here, she said. But I do recall as a little girl, when I lived farther down the road than I do now, that this was the only house for a couple of miles. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Yup, she said. This whole area used to be forest and hayfields. She opened her eyes, they twinkled red and wet in a ray of sunlight. My girlfriends — Oh god, I must’ve been eight or nine — used to come over here and visit the Prossar family. They owned the place before these people did, she said raising the brown folder. Man and wife, two old people with no children. They used to make us kids weak tea and homemade cookies. But . . . there was this one time, when my friends and me came over. It was morning and the old couple wasn’t home. Gone grocery shopping, I guess. So after nosing around, we discovered the playhouse was unlocked. Her smile widened as she looked back to the structure. So we went in. And lo and behold, there was this little girl playing in there. Playing with a ribbon of rusted horse bells. Someone we’d never seen before. Someone that didn’t go to our school. And she was dressed differently. The agent regarded Steven. We instinctively knew she was from another time. That much was obvious."

Who was she?

The realtor twirled a string of raven hair around her finger. Not sure, but we played all that day until the Prossar’s returned home. She looked to the road beyond the weathered gates. This stretch was where poor country folk lived back then. She stepped onto the stoop of the main house. When we greeted the old couple, the little girl wasn’t with us. She up and vanished, like blowing dandelion seeds.

"You didn’t see her